less, and dead, in your own selfish fancy. And sward-never mind the hyacinths, the snowif a generous emotion steals over you-coming, drops, the violets, if so be any are there; the peryou know not whither, would there not be a richer charm in lavishing it in caress, or endearing word, upon that fondest, and most dear one, than in patting your glossy coated dog, or sinking lonely to smiling slumbers? How would not benevolence ripen with such mouitor to task it! How would not selfishness grow faint and dull, leaning ever to that second self, which is the loved one! How would not guile shiver, and grow weak, before that girl-brow, and eye of innocence! How would not all that boyhood prized of enthusiasm, and quick blood, and life, renew itself in such presence! The fire was getting hotter, and I moved into the middle of the room. The shadows the flames made, were playing like fairy forms over floor, and wall, and ceiling. fume of their healthful lips is worth all the flowers of the world. No need now to gather wild bouquets to love, and cherish:-flower, tree, sunlight, are all dead things; things livelier hold your soul. And she, the mother, sweetest and fairest of all, watching, tending, caressing, loving, till your own heart grows pained with tenderest jealousy, and cures itself with loving. You have no need now of cold lecture to teach thankfulness: your heart is full of it. No need now, as ouce, of bursting blossoms, of trees taking leaf, and greenness, to turn thought kindly, and thankfully; for ever, beside you, there is bloom, and ever beside you there is fruit, for which eye, heart, and soul are full of unknown, and unspoken, because unspeakable, thank-offering. And if sickness catches you, binds you, lays My fancy would surely quicken, thought I, if you down-no lonely moanings, and wicked cursuch being were in attendance. Surely imagi- ses at careless stepping nurses. The step is nation would be stronger, and purer, if it could noiseless, and yet distinct beside you. The white have the playful fancies of dawning woman- curtains are drawn, or withdrawn by the magic bood to delight it. All toil would be torn from of that other presence; and the soft, cool hand mind-labor, if but another heart grew into this is upon your brow. present soul, quickening it, warming it, cheering it, bidding it ever, God speed! No cold comfortings of friend-watchers, merely come in to steal a word away from that outer world which is pulling at their skirts, but, ever, the sad, shaded brow of her, whose lightest sorrow for your sake is your greatest grief,-if it were not a greater joy. Her face would make a halo, rich as rainbow, atop of all such noisome things, as we lonely souls, call trouble. Her smile would illumine the blackest of crowding cares; and darkness that now seats you despondent, in your solitary chair The blaze was leaping light and high, and for days together, weaving bitter fancies, dream- the wood falling under the growing heat. So, ing bitter dreams, would grow light and thin, and continued I, this heart would be at length itspread, and float away,-chased by that beloved self;-striving with every thing gross, even now smile. as it clings to grossness. Love would make its Your friend-poor fellow!-dies:-never mind, strength native and progressive. Earth's cares that gentle clasp of her fingers, as she steals be- would fly. Joys would double. Susceptibilities hind you, telling you not to weep-it is worth be quickened; Love master self; and having made the mastery, stretch onward, and upward toward Infinitude. all friends! Your sister, sweet one, is dead-buried. The worms are busy with all her fairness. How it makes you think earth nothing but a spot to dig graves upon! -It is more she, she says, will be a sister; and the waving curls as she leans upon your shoulder, touch your cheek, and your wet eye turns to meet those other eyes-God has sent his angel, surely! Your mother. alas for it, she is gone! Is there any bitterness to a youth, alone, and homeless, like this? And, if the end came, and sickness brought that follower-Great Follower-which sooner or later is sure to come after, then the heart, and the hand of Love, ever near, are giving to your tired soul, daily and hourly, lessons of that love which consoles, which triumphs, which circleth all, and centereth in all-Love Infinite, and Divine! Kind hands-none but hers-will smooth the hair upon your brow as the chill grows damp, and heavy on it; and her fingers-none but hers-will lie in yours as the wasted flesh stiffens, and hardens for the ground. Her tears, you could feel no others, if oceans fell-will warm your drooping features once more to life;-once more your eye lighted in joyous triumph, kindle in her smile. and then— But you are not homeless; you are not alone: she is there;—her tears softening yours, her smile lighting yours, her grief killing yours; and you live again, to assuage that kind sorrow of hers. Then-those children, rosy, fair-haired; no, they do not disturb you with prattle nowThe fire fell upon the hearth; the blaze gave they are yours. Toss away there on the green-a last leap-a flicker-then another-caught went out. a little remaining twig-blazed up-wavered—if that breathing be quickened, as you ascend the home-heights, to look off on sunset lighting the plain. There was nothing but a bed of glowing embers, over which the white ashes gathered fast. I was alone, with only my dog for company. III. ASHES-SIGNIFYING DESOLATION. Is your sleep, quiet sleep, after that she bas whispered to you her fears, and in the same breath-soft as a sigh, sharp as an arrow-bid you bear it bravely? But then, the embers were now glowing fresher, a little kindling, before the ashes-she triumphs over disease. After all, thought I, ashes follow blaze, inevi- But Poverty, the world's almoner, has come tably as Death follows Life. Misery treads on to you with ready, spare hand. Alone, with the heels of Joy; Anguish rides swift after Plea- | your dog living on bones, and you, on hope sure. "Come to me again, Carlo," said I, to my dog; and I patted him fondly now only by the light of the dying embers. kindling each morning, dying slowly each nightthis could be borne. Philosophy would bring home its stores to the lone-man. Money is not in his hand, but Knowledge is in his brain! and It is but little pleasure one takes in fondling from that brain he draws out faster, as he draws brute favorites, but it is a pleasure that when it slower from his pocket. He remembers; and on passes, leaves no void. It is only a little allevia- remembrance he can live for days, and weeks. ting redundance in your solitary heart-life, which The garret, if garret covers him, is rich in fauif lost, another can be supplied. cies. The rain if it pelts, pelts only him used to But if your heart, not solitary-not quieting rain-peltings. And his dog crouches not in dread, its humors with mere love of chase, or dog-not but in companionship. His crust he divides with repressing year after year, its earnest yearnings him, and laughs. He crowns himself with gloafter something better, more spiritual,-has fairly rious memories of Cervantes, though he begs: linked itself by bonds strong as life to another if he nights it under the stars, he dreams heavenheart is the casting off easy, then ? sent dreams of prisoned, and homeless Gallileo. He hums old sonnets, and snatches of poor Jonson's plays. He chants Dryden's odes, and dwells on Otway's rhyme. He reasons with Bolingbroke or Diogenes, as the humour takes him: and laughs at the world: for the world, thank Heaven, has left him alone! Keep your money, old misers, and your palaces, old princes,-the world is mine! I care not Fortune what you me deny,- But if not alone ? If she is clinging to you for support, for consolation, for home, for life-she reared in luxury perhaps, is faint for bread? Then, the iron enters the soul; then the nights darken under any sky light. Then the days grow long, even in solstice of winter. She may not complain; what then? How anxiously you watch that step-if it lose not its buoyancy; How you study the colour on Will your heart grow strong, if the strength of that cheek, if it grow not fainter; How you trem- her love can dam up the fountains of tears, and ble at the lustre in those eyes, if it be not the lus- the tied tongue not tell of bereavement ? Will tre of Death; How you totter under the weight it solace you to find her parting the poor treaof that muslin sleeve-a phantom weight! How sure of food you have stolen for her, with hegyou fear to do it, and yet press forward, to note ging, foodless children? But this ill, strong hands, and Heaven's help, | will put down. Wealth again; Flowers again; Patrimonial acres again; Brightness again. But your little Bessy, your favorite child is pining. Would to God! you say in agony, that wealth could bring fulness again into that blanched cheek, or round those little thin lips once more; but it cannot. Thinner and thinner they grow; plaintive and more plaintive her sweet voice. "Dear Bessy"—and your tones tremble; you feel she is on the edge of the grave. Can you pluck her back? Can endearments stay her? Business is heavy, away from the loved child; home, you go, to fondle while yet time is leftbut this time you are too late. She is gone. She cannot hear you; she cannot thank you for the violets you put within her stiff white hand. And then the grassy mound-the cold shadow of head-stone! The wind, growing with the night, is rattling at the window panes, and whistles dismally. I wipe a tear, and in the interval of my Reverie, thank God, that I am no such mourner. But gaiety, snail-footed, creeps back to the house-hold. All is bright again. The violet's bed's not sweeter, than the delicious breath Aye, put your hair away,—compose yourself— listen again. No, there is nothing. Put your hand now to his brow,—damp indeed-but not with healthful night-sleep; it is not your hand, no. do not deceive yourself—it is your loved boy's forehead that is so cold; and your loved boy will never speak to you again— never play again—he is dead! Oh, the tears-the tears;-what blessed things are tears! Never fear now to let them fall on his forehead, or his lip, lest you waken him! Clasp him-clasp him harder-you cannot hurt, you cannot waken him! Lay him down, gently or not, it is the same; he is stiff'; he is stark and cold. But courage is elastic; it is our pride. It recovers itself easier, thought I, than these embers will get into blaze again. But courage, and patience, and faith, and hope have their limit. Blessed be the man who escapes such trial as will determine limit! To a lone-man it comes not near; for how can trial take hold where there is nothing by which to try? A funeral? You reason with philosophy. A grave-yard? You read Hervey and muse upon the wall. A friend dies? You sigh, you pat your dog,-it is over. Losses? You retrenchyou light your pipe-it is forgotten. Calumny? Her lip is rich and full; her cheek delicate as You laugh—you sleep. a flower. Her frailty doubles your love. But with that childless wife clinging to you in love and sorrow-what then? And the little one she clasps-frail too-too frail; the boy you had set your hopes and heart Can you take down Seneca now and coolly on. You have watched him growing, ever pret-blow the dust from the leaf-tops? Can you crimp tier, ever winning more and more upon your soul. The love you bore to him when he first lisped names-your name and hers-has doubled in strength now that he asks innocently to be taught of this, or that, and promises you by that lively curiosity that flashes in his eye, a mind full of intelligence. And some hair-breadth escape by sea, or flood, that he perhaps may have had-which unstrung your soul to such tears as you pray God, may be spared you again-has endeared the little fellow to your heart a thousand fold. And now, with his pale sister in the grave, all that love has come away from the mound, where worms feast, and centers on the boy. How you watch the storms lest they harm him! How often you steal to his bed late at night, and lay your hand lightly upon the brow, where the curls cluster thick, rising and falling with the throbbing temples, and watch, for minutes to gether, the little lips half parted, and listenyour ear close to them-if the breathing be regular and sweet! But the day comes-the night rather-when you can catch no breathing. your lip with Voltaire? Can you smoke idly, your feet dangling with the ivies, your thoughts all waving fancies, upon a church-yard wall-a wall that borders the grave of your boy? Can you amuse yourself with turning stinging Martial into rhyme? Can you pat your dog, and seeing him wakeful and kind, say, "it is enough?" Can you sneer at calumny and sit by your fire dozing? Blessed, thought I again, is the man who escapes such trial as will measure limit of patience and limit of courage! But the trial comes: colder and colder were growing the embers. That wife, over whom your love broods, is fading. Not beauty fading;-that now that your heart is wrapped in her being would be nothing. She sees with quick eye your dawning apprehension, and she tries hard to make that step of hers elastic. Your trials and your loves together have centered your affections. They are not now as when you were a lone man, wide-spread and superficial. They have caught from domestic attachments a finer tone and touch. They can not shoot out tendrils into barren world-soil and | Thanksgiving! Press the hand that lies light upon suck up thence strengthening nutriment. They your arm, and you too, thank God, while yet you have grown under the forcing glass of home-roof, may! they will not now bear exposure. You are early home-mid-afternoon. Your sent for you. You do not now look men in the face as if a heart-bond was linking you-as if a community of feeling lay between. There is a heart-bond step is not light; it is heavy, terrible. They have that absorbs all others; there is a community that monopolizes your feeling. When the heart lay wide open, before it had grown upon, and closed around particular objects, it could take strength and cheer from a hundred connections that now seem colder than ice. And now those particular objects-alas for you!—are failing. What anxiety pursues you! How you struggle to fancy—there is no danger; how she struggles to pursuade you there is no danger! How it grates now on your ear-the toil and turmoil of the city! It was music when you were alone; it was pleasant even, when from the din, you were elaborating comforts for the cherished objects-when you had such sweet escape as evening drew on. Now it maddens you to see the world careless while you are steeped in care. They hustle you in the street; they smile at you across the table; they bow carelessly over the way; they do not know what canker is at your heart. The undertaker comes with his bill for the dead boy's funeral. He knows your grief; he is respectful. You bless him in your soul. You wish the laughing street-goers were all undertakers. Your eye follows the physician as he leaves your house is he wise, you ask yourself; is he prudent? is he the best? Did he never fail-is he never forgetful? : And now the hand that touches yours, is it no thinner-no whiter than yesterday? Sunny days come when she revives; colour comes back; she breathes freer; she picks flowers; she meets you with a smile: hope lives again. She is lying down; her eyes half closed; her breathing long and interrupted. She hears you; her eye opens; you put your hand in hers; yours trembles, hers does not. Her lips move; it is your name. "Be strong," she says, "God will help you!" She presses harder your hand :—" Adieu!" A long breath—another; you are alone again! No tears now; poor man! You cannot find them! Again home early. There is a smell of varnish in your house. A coffin is there; they have clothed the body in decent grave clothes, and the undertaker is screwing down the lid, slipping round on tip-toe. Does he fear to waken her! He asks you a simple question about the inscription upon the plate, rubbing it with his coat cuff. You look him straight in the eye; you motion to the door; you dare not speak. He takes up his hat and glides out stealthful as Some sprigs of mignionette are lying carelessly in a little gilt edged saucer. She loved mig. nionette. It is a good stanch table the coffin rests on;it is your table; you are a house-keeper—a man of family! Aye, of family!-keep down outery, or the nurse will be in. Look over at the pinched features; is this all that is leit of her! And where is your heart now! No, don't thrust your nails into your hands, nor mangle your lip, nor grate But the next day of storm she is fallen. She your teeth together. If you could only weep! cannot talk even; she presses your hand. You hurry away from business before your time. What matter for clients-who is to reap the rewards? What matter for fame-whose eye will it brighten? What matter for riches-whose is the inheritance? You find her propped with pillows; she is looking over a little picture book bethumbed by the dear boy she has lost. She hides it in her chair; she has pity on you. Auother day. The coffin is gone out. The stupid mourners have wept-what idle tears! She, with your crushed heart, is gone out! Will you have pleasant evenings at your home now? Go into your parlor that your prim housekeeper has made comfortable with clean hearth and blaze of sticks. Sit down in your chair; there is another velvet cushioned one, over against yours, empty. You press your fingers on your eye-balls, as if you would press out something that hurt the brain; but you cannot. Your head leans upon Another day of revival, when the spring sun shines, and flowers open out of doors; she leans on your arm, and strolls into the garden where the first birds are singing. Listen to them with your hand; your eyes rest upon the flashing her; what memories are in bird-songs! You blaze. need not shudder at her tears-they are tears of Ashes always come after blaze. Go now into the room where she was sicksoftly, lest the prim house-keeper hear you and come after. They have put new dimity upon her chair; they have hung new curtains over the bed. They have removed from the stand its phials and silver bell; they have put a little vase of flowers in their place; the perfume will not offend the sick nurse now. They have half opened the window, that the room, so long closed, may have air. It will not be too cold. She is not there. Oh, God! thou who dost temper the wind to the Shorn Lamb-be kind! The embers were dark; I stirred them; there was no sign of life. My dog was asleep. The clock in my tenant's chamber had struck one. I dashed a tear or two from my eyes-how they came I know not. I half ejaculated a prayer of thanks that such desolation had not yet come nigh me; and a prayer of hope that it might never come. I have a thousand associations and recollections connected with the old building formerly known by this name, as it used to stand, (and still stands under a new title.) on H, now called Broad Street, near the Rail-Road Depot. When In a half hour more, I was sleeping soundly. I say old building, I do not mean to insinuate My revery was ended. SONG. I make no boast of feeling- Like music from above May never lose its power to bless, Or charm the weary spirit less. I do not say the gladness Of youth's enchanting dreamMay never change to sadness, When paled its golden beam : For is there aught of heavenly birth That fadeth not, when brought to earth? The visions that we cherish, The day-dreams of the heartLike flowers of autumn perish, Like rainbow tints departAll that is beautiful must fade, O'er brightest hopes there falls-a shade. Yet this my spirit dareth, To whisper unto thine The true heart never feareth Its earnest love's decline The fond vow breathed-the promise spokenAh! were they uttered-to he broken? An-angel's sunny pinion Will be lifted from my soul, If thy love's bright dominion Should lose its blest controlAnd desolate will be my lotIf thy sweet influence cheer it not. VOL. XV-77 that it was so very old, and, in truth, with its present painted face and altered aspect, it is difficult to regard it as a relic of antiquity. It is, however, an old building; for I have passed my tenth lustrum, (some time,) and I can remember it as the old Swan even in my boyish days, and even then it looked to my young eyes like a timeworn mansion, not quite old enough indeed to have existed ab urbe condita, but clearly to have been erected at a period not long after the commencement of our revolutionary war; and I am confident that it must have been nearly coeval with that memorable event. I shall leave the point, however, to the investigation of the chroniclers about me. Now I have certainly no ill will to the present proprietors of this venerable establishment, but I confess I did feel something like a shock, and perhaps a very little rising of choler, when, passing by the building one morning, a few months ago, I discovered, for the first time, that the good old bird with its well-remembered graceful neck of tarnished gilt, that used to stand out on the sign, in all weathers, had entirely disappeared, and that, in lieu of it, there was only a plain blue ground, with the words, "Broad Street Hotel," thereon; (how flat, and prosaic in the comparison!) to amaze and offend my eyes. Indeed how could I be otherwise than shocked when this discovery not only gave me a sudden start of surprise, but seemed, at the moment, to scatter and dispel a thousand pleasant and long-cherished associations connected with the old sign, and the old house? I had looked at the brave bird perhaps a thousand times, and always with great satisfaction; but it was now gone, and forever. And the old tavern which it so appropri |